HIS WORST SCHEME EVER
by LittleMender
Summary: He'd been pushing them at one another throughout the entire case. Now he wasn't at all sure of how he felt about the outcome. One thing was certain: this would be his last matchmaking scheme where Lisbon was concerned. Hint of Jisbon.


**I loved last night's episode-until the last scene. I'm all for Lisbon having a bit of fun, but judging from his reaction when he noticed Mashburn's pupils, I'm not sure even Jane thought things would go that far that quickly. I like that Lisbon was so in control, as if she had already decided it was just a fling. And it was clear Mash's interest was not at all dampened the morning after. I wish they would have taken us back to the office so we could see Jane's reaction, but I knew it was too soon for him to respond in a way that would satisfy. So, I wrote this as a way to vent my frustration.**

HIS WORST SCHEME EVER

She was late.

That almost never happened. As a matter of fact, now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember that it had _ever_ happened. Not without a call to let them know she was in a meeting or at an appointment. She had a yearly physical that she always scheduled as early in the morning as possible so it wouldn't break up her workday. But that couldn't be it. Her last physical was only five months ago. She was periodically in depositions, and there was the occasional court date. But to just not show up until . . . what time was it anyway?

The elevator pinged, and he heard Van Pelt greet her in the hall. It was 8:32—a full hour later than her usual arrival time. She would be irritated with herself and everybody else, oversleeping that way. He couldn't decide if he should let her have her space or taunt the big cat. He sat up and, under the guise of picking up a Sudoku magazine from the far end of his couch, watched her walk down the hall toward her office. It would probably be a good idea to gauge the situation. If she was a little miffed, he might want to kick it up a notch. If she was moderately miffed, he'd probably want to let her be. If she was beside herself with . . . miffed-ness, it would just be too good to pass up.

Hm. She was sauntering. He'd never seen her do that while she was on duty. Not in the building anyway. Maybe when they were out together, working a case and playing on the side just a little. And she was still smiling as she turned away from Van Pelt. It was a warm, relaxed smile. She looked almost mellow.

He frowned to himself. She was definitely not behaving like the usual Lisbon. He didn't mind a change now and then. She actually managed to surprise him quite frequently. But not in the day-to-day mundane stuff. She always came in at the same time, always stayed late, always drove the car, always wore the same clothes.

Her clothes.

She was wearing what she wore yesterday. Most of her work clothes were similar—shades of black and gray with a few pops of color or pastel button-down shirts thrown in from time to time. But he definitely remembered the lace-edged black cami from yesterday. It was one of his favorite looks on her. The soft lace always framed her cross necklace so beautifully.

And where was her briefcase? Without really thinking about what he was doing, he got off the couch and moved toward her as if some invisible force was pulling him. Instead of heading straight into her office, he moved into the hallway and circled her doorway. Her briefcase was setting on the floor and leaning against her desk, just as it had been the previous day. She would never have forgotten it—she had to have left it behind last night on purpose, not expecting to have a chance to do any work at home. But she hadn't been home. She would have changed her clothes.

He waited for the pieces of evidence and the hunches and the deductions to fall into place . . .

Mashburn. She'd spent the evening . . . the _night_ with Mashburn.

He frowned to himself again, looking down at the floor.

Well, . . . good. That was good. He'd only been throwing them at each other throughout the case. Of course, once he learned Walter was going to Europe, he had backed off, thinking that if Mash stayed in touch after he returned, he'd do his best then to help Lisbon into a bit of "empty glamour", as he had once called it. Yes, empty glamour would definitely be good for her. But it wouldn't do for her to pine for him while he was away or—worse yet—be cast aside after such a short dalliance.

As he thought about it, though, he wasn't quite sure how he felt about this. He still thought they were a good match. Nothing long term would ever come of it, of course—Mash wasn't wired that way. But he'd want the millionaire to offer her more than a one-night stand.

Maybe he should get her a cup of coffee. Not the stuff they served up in the break room. Something good from the coffee cart. Or maybe something gourmet from around the corner. And a bear claw from Marie's. She may need a bit of cheering up.

Except that she was humming. He frowned again. Why was she humming? It wasn't like her to . . .

He needed to stop thinking that way. Apparently it was _just_ like her to do something he didn't anticipate. He chided himself for not paying better attention. He had noticed Mashburn's want-dilated pupils. He remembered exactly the feeling he'd had when he picked up on it, wondering if he needed to slow it down a bit but knowing he'd probably somehow capitalize on it. He had neglected to check for an answering response in Lisbon's eyes. Or had he simply not caught it? Then there was the interview with Elsa. The psycho supermodel had said that her intention in rushing at Mashburn and Lisbon had been to kill _her_—not him—because she was going to kiss the millionaire. He should've stayed closer.

He guessed he didn't realize how well he had played his little game. He felt a bit guilty. He didn't mean for Lisbon to get hurt, but apparently Mashburn had seduced her, and she had succumbed. That was the only explanation. And now she was deluded into thinking there would be something more to it. Hence, the humming.

Should he broach the subject? Try to head off her heartache at the pass? It would be better for her to face it now when there would be time and distance between her and Mash. But she was so private. Maybe he should just let it die down quietly. Be nice and thoughtful and ease up on the shenanigans for the next few cases.

The sound of her ringtone brought him out of his reverie. He watched her check the caller ID and smile. At least Walter had the decency to call her before his jet took off; however, it would be better for the poor woman if he just made a clean break of it. It was like Mash to indulge himself, though, and not think about anyone else's feelings.

He watched, stunned, as she rolled her eyes in a good-natured way and silenced the ringer, opting to ignore the call before tossing her cell onto her desk. He was so nonplussed that when she picked up her coffee mug and started out of her office on the way to the break room that she almost caught him watching her. He quickly stepped back into the bullpen and waited for her to breeze by, offering an airy "Morning, everybody!" to the room in general before he ducked back out and walked soundlessly to her office. He picked up her phone and checked her missed calls.

Walter. Not Walter Mashburn or Mashburn or even Mash. Just Walter. He couldn't seem to stop frowning.

He slowly walked back to the bullpen.

"You all right, Jane?"

He looked up and smiled at Van Pelt's thoughtful enquiry, giving her a small nod just in time for Lisbon to stroll past the bullpen with an "I'll be in my office!" Just before she turned to move toward her door, she looked at him over her coffee cup and winked.

His throat felt funny.

"Well somebody's in a good mood." Stupid Rigsby.

"She left her stuff here last night." Cho didn't even look up from whatever insipid book he was currently reading.

"She's wearing the same thing she wore yesterday!" Leave it to Grace to be excited about clothes.

"Hey, Jane! You think she indulged in a little "empty glamour" last night?" Really. Sometimes it was amazing just how stupid Rigsby could be.

Jane responded with a faked chuckle and lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted attempt at a shrug. He had tried to spend more time in the bullpen lately, not feeling the need to isolate himself so much during the day, especially since Lisbon's impassioned speech on the subject. The little attic room sounded pretty good right now. He always felt kind of like Einstein or some other eccentric genius when he was up there with his cluttered space and great view. He walked out, ducking his head as if that would make him invisible to the others.

It only took fifteen minutes of staring at the same two pages in his journal for him to realize this wasn't working. He didn't know what coming upstairs was supposed to have accomplished, but he felt like the kid whose friends try to get rid of him by pretending to play hide-and-seek. He wondered idly how long he would have to stay up there before she came looking for him. Or _if_ she would come looking. All at once, he realized he was sulking. He pretended to sulk every once in a while. It got a rise out of her. But to do it for real when she wasn't even around to appreciate it and play at being irritated seemed like a waste of his time and abilities.

He decided to just look at the situation head-on and think it through. He had pushed Mash and Lisbon at each other, pointing out to both of them how interested the man had been. He had introduced her to Mash's friends as his newest girlfriend. He had embroiled them both in one of his schemes, inadvertently partnering them together. Lisbon's saving Mash's life and as good as taking a bullet for the guy had probably only thrown more fuel on the fire.

And Lisbon had slept with him. No dinner, no flowers, a lot of pursuing but very little wooing, and she had folded. She wasn't the type to let a man hurt her. She wouldn't let him get that close. With her past—as much as he knew of it—she would be careful in the extreme. She also wouldn't start a relationship on a whim. She was too private and proud to share much of herself with someone she had basically just met. And she had ignored his call.

He thought back to the first time they'd met Mashburn. They were eating at the corner table on the terrace at the country club—he and Lisbon, Mash and his . . . date. Walter had been unable to keep his eyes off of Lisbon during the entire conversation. Earlier that day, he had had a talk with her about Rigsby's and Van Pelt's newly announced romantic relationship, and he had accused her—in a completely friendly manner, of course—of being jealous and resentful of their happiness.

"_Okay. I am not jealous and resentful. That is nonsense."_

"_Yet you recall my exact words. There's no shame in it. I feel that way, too, sometimes. 'Why does everyone else get to have a normal life?'"_

_He continued the conversation, analyzing her, demonstrating how well he could read her, half in enjoyment of the game, half in trying to get her to go soft on Grace and Rigsby. He enjoyed identifying with her in their mutual, yet exclusive, solitude._

He guessed they _weren't_ in this together then.

He pushed himself up out of his chair and walked to the window to take in the view, wrists bent and palms pressed against each side of his lower back, pushing in as he stretched back against them. He was struck with such sudden clarity that it forced a "Hah!" from his lungs.

Lisbon had had a fling! Mashburn was _her_ one-night stand, not the other way around. And she was such a control freak; he didn't have to guess who had made the first move. He could only surmise that Walter was the one carrying the torch—still intrigued, his curiosity and his desire not satiated after a night with her. Of _course_, he was still interested. At least until he landed across the pond and met his first flight attendant or model or heiress or waitress. And she would know that about him. She had gone to him for one night, knowing his attention span wasn't much longer than that. Jane thought she underestimated herself. He had known her for over three years, and she managed to occupy a great deal of _his_ waking thoughts. She had no more intention of ever after—or even next week—than Mashburn had.

Well, _that_ was a surprise. He didn't know what that did to his opinion of her. Not much, as it turned out. One thing he _was_ certain of was that there would be no more matchmaking games for him (Even though he didn't like it, he found if he kept deluding himself into taking credit for it to some degree it didn't seem to bother him as much.).

One thing was certain: he needed to keep a closer eye on things. He couldn't take anything for granted—details were too important. He didn't feel like going back to the bullpen, but for some reason, his feet carried him smoothly and rapidly down the stairs anyway. He couldn't pretend he didn't know where they were taking him.

Smiling to himself he considered the fact that it had been a long while since he had spent any quality time on Lisbon's couch. Yes. He was going to be keeping a closer eye on . . . _things_.


End file.
